


Bishop's Lace

by darylfiend



Series: Flora [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Ficlet, M/M, Sickness, Vague, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darylfiend/pseuds/darylfiend
Summary: Yarrow cont'd





	Bishop's Lace

The pain had invaded his sleep, reminding him of his bodily location while still surrounded by the alien world of dreams. It took him a few moments to find his eyes again. A stiff white cluster of blossoms, spread like a starry platter propped on the table beside him, setting off alarm bells in his head. He hadn’t been thirsty when he reached for the water, simply hoped for something cool to soothe his aching throat and pounding skull. 

Now, sitting upright, staring at the weed that lay on the mildewed surface, he felt a surge of panic driving him to stand. It didn’t feel good, but he felt better than yesterday, and drained the glass once he realised it slid down easy.

He’d left one clear message, carefully drawn in the dust with a finger: Sanctuary.

The last stronghold that might still be standing. If anyone had survived, maybe they could have made it there. Daryl had delayed at first, still unclear on who exactly had attacked the Hilltop, though just as many Saviors had fallen victim to the fires that engulfed the boarded-up trailers. Paul had nearly succumbed to the smoke before Daryl had broken down the door from the outside and dragged him out.

Up until Paul had fallen ill, they had barely considered heading that way, barely had time to. With the herd blocking their path for the first two nights, and Daryl resolute in his concentric search of the area surrounding Hilltop, they had slowly worked their way towards it before scavenging and rest became a necessity in the inclement weather. 

Paul swayed on his feet, bracing himself at the sink and squinting through the gap in the curtains to gauge his surroundings. Inwardly, he cursed Daryl for not waiting for him to wake. The strain on sore muscles and movement of blood felt like shattered glass in his veins, but he convinced himself he’d get used to it, enough for a wash. 

There was a pot of boiled water that had cooled on the counter. He slurped as much as he could from cupped hands, filled two bottles to drink, then stripped down and braced his fevered body for the coldest scrub of his life. Loading up a pot scrubber with an ancient bar of soap, he was determined to lather the smell of sickness from his body and underclothes. 

The cobwebbed thermometer outside the window read 89 degrees, but when he pried it open a crack, the draft was alarmingly cold on his damp skin. No scent of nearby walkers though, alive or dead. 

He braved the spiders to relieve himself in the cramped washroom, took his bottles back to the couch and placed them on the table next to the floral memo. It would take Daryl at least a day to reach the sanctuary on foot, but not much longer to return with a vehicle, so he wrapped himself back up in the blankets to wait for his clothes to dry, eating the last of the canned peaches from the sticky jar Daryl had left within his reach.

After one day, he would know if the wait would stretch to two. He believed Daryl would return, had to believe it, or he knew he’d do something stupid. Waiting was the hardest part. It hurt him deep in his chest, even more now that he knew to whom his _Language of Flowers_ book had disappeared. 

Maybe Maggie and baby Hershel had made it out alive, fled into the darkness where the smoke and chaos had covered their tracks. Maybe Enid and Harlan and Aaron were safe with her at the Sanctuary, or maybe it had been laid to waste, overtaken by hostiles. If Daryl was careful, he’d find out soon enough. 

Either way, he trusted Daryl to bring him an answer. Should two nights pass, he’d seek one himself. Maybe it wasn't too late.

**Author's Note:**

> i literally hate this but if anyone else posted it i know i'd be thirsty for it because there needs to be more desus always. there always needs to be more. forever.


End file.
